I love older women - the ones fighting tooth and nail to catch the last few rays of the sun of youth - even though clouds covered that garden long ago. Long, long ago. So when I get this one particular old bird Saturday night, I know I'm in for a fun ride.
This old bird is well seasoned. Well seasoned and tenderized - but she's working every bit of what she's got. Cut off blue-jeans that would be scandalous on women four decades younger sit atop some chicken legs - tan chicken legs - but chicken legs nonetheless. She's got a spaghetti strap yellow mini-tank that is at least a size too small and seems designed to display her still-firm (either by surgeon's knife or nature's grace) assets.
The hair - I've got to say - is rocking. Think Cassandra Peterson - except really white blonde and only shoulder-length. And she's knocking about in white boots. Why I don't know. I wish I did.
Age is clearly a state of mind to this woman - and while her sartorial choices could be debated -- she's clearly having a good time at this stage of her life. She's about to spread the humor.
She got the twin to the spaghetti strap tee she's wearing - only in blue - and she doesn't want it. She set the bag on the counter and I ask her if she has her receipt.
She tells me it is in the bag. I look and it is not there. I ask her if it is in her pockets. Not that there's room for anything in those pockets.
"I just had it. I was looking at it in the car."
I ask her "Did you take it out at the door when they put the sticker on the shirt?"
She says no - and then goes "Maybe I put it in here."
HERE turns out to be the First National Bank of the C Cup.
Right there. Right in front of me. RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME, Shiva and about ten other people. She starts digging around in her freaking front end. She knocks aside a cross and a gold necklace and starts feeling around between her breasts. I'm just transfixed. I didn't know whether to stare or to look away. She pulls up a wad of cash and starts looking through it for a receipt.
At this point, I seriously started to consider - what the hell do I do if she actually FINDS the receipt? Really. Breast sweat? That's going above and beyond the call of duty. Especially for Wal-Mart.
She never found the receipt. Thank you Shiva. I asked for her drivers license - which thankfully she kept in her purse - and she bounced out with a shopping card.
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8 comments:
Rock on, grandma! The jean shorts sound a bit horrifying, but hey, if that's her thing...
Actually, years ago in Air Force basic training, I used to carry around pens and half-finished letters to my husband in my bra (the only place you could hide stuff you weren't supposed to have with you - all the girls had supplies in their bras). That way I could write to him in the little moments, and I made sure he knew where the letters had been; gave him a little thrill.
Of course, we were newlyweds and I was a young pretty little 110 pound thing, so of course it's a totally different situation. But your story and the reminder made me smile today, thanks!
Your blog is hilarious. Please please don't stop.
You're lucky. I long for the halcyon days of older women producing wads of cash and the renegade bit of used tissue from their bra. Now it's almost unrecognisable denominations produced as if by sleight of hand from inside a sweat-soaked sock; bills that take hours to dry and even longer to stop smelling...
I definitely had quite a few very fat women reach into their bras and pull out sweaty wads of cash to give to me when I worked at Target about 8 years ago.
It was always disgusting.
Oooh. Dare I use the word 'milf' or would that be just to gross?
Atleast she was polite about the whole thing. :)
I got a good laugh out of this one. Then I read it to Mrs. Fetched, and we both laughed our asses off. And the size our asses are, now I gotta rent a forklift to get rid of them....
way too funny...no matter what, you just had to give her something. if for nothin but entertainment value
Yeah, be glad you don't work at a bank. I had women pull cash out of their bras, and you don't have the option of saying "This is above and beyond the call of duty." It's cash. It's a bank. You have to take it. GROSS.
Possibly even grosser (though I'm not sure) than the guy who owned the funeral home, whose cash deposits were always vaguely damp and musty smelling. Eeeuwww...
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